


Heat

by robotfvckers



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Begging, Frottage, M/M, Power Imbalance, Scents & Smells, Stink Kink, THERE'S SNIFFING OK, just because Gabe is Jesse's commander, musk, sniffing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-13
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-10-03 22:47:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10260548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robotfvckers/pseuds/robotfvckers
Summary: A mission sends Blackwatch to the jungle.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A fic trade with [offbrandkreuz](http://offbrandkreuz.tumblr.com) on tumblr! Follow them for tasty smutty arts. :9

They’ve been out here for weeks, and McCree can’t stand it much longer. The jungle is nothing like New Mexico, where the dry heat bakes and cracks during the day and chills to the bone at night. Those extremes are bearable, knowable, hell, even a comfort to him. This isn’t. The jungle’s a whole ‘nother beast, sticky and muggy, drizzling rain with little reprieve, fluctuating between stiflingly humid and overwhelmingly damp. With every breath, McCree tastes the moisture and flora on his tongue, the cloying smells linger in the back of his throat like a sickly perfume.

And that’s only on the outskirts of camp, where a man can be alone to smoke, nurse a weak flame in the dampness to steady his nerves and stymie the unbearable mugginess, if only for a few minutes.

The smoke also keeps the mosquitos away. Sure, they have bed nets, and the ones that carry disease have been bred out by some scientists a few decades back. However, ecosystems being as they were, the little fucks weren’t eradicated, remaining as a necessary evil to provide sustenance for the other critters. 

_To hell with them_ , McCree thinks morosely as he smacks the back of his neck for the hundredth time that evening without even a tiny smashed corpse for his trouble. The endless itching chips away at his nerves too, little relief to be found in scratching with gloves against three layers of uniform.

He curses the higher-ups, deploying them here before they figured out the proper paperwork, leaving them to twiddle their thumbs and go stir _fucking_ crazy in this hellish place while they get their shit together. Nothing to do. Nothing to accomplish. They’re rotting out there. 

McCree snubs his cigarette beneath his boot, knows its extinguished before it hits the ground without the inhalation of oxygen to keep it lit, but the action is second nature. Familiar. He mops the sweat and slick from his brow before turning back to camp.

Each trudging step compounds the other problem that disrupts his usual laidback nonchalance: their camp _smells_. Stationing twenty operatives in unending ninety-plus humidity with only prickly heat powder and a limit on pre-soaked sponges left everyone less than hygienic. The single blessing is that the latrines were built far enough a way that the worst of the stink was near unnoticeable.

Still, as he passes Vasquez and Xie with little more than a nod, he can smell them, musky and dirty, the stink of their bodies pressing against him, palpable in their intensity. He’s sure they can smell him in turn, at the edge of camp, where it’s still possible to differentiate, nothing like when he’s standing in the center, with everyone squeezed together in a giant mass of sweat and wet bodies, stinking in a way that never quite fades from his awareness. 

That smell washes over him now, intensifying with each step, and he tries to breath more shallowly, even though it makes his heart beat that much faster, oxygen limited enough as it is by the unyielding moisture in the air.

Yun walks past, tapping out a cigarette from a crinkled packet. They seem just as worn down by the place as him, if their hunched shoulders and weary face are anything to go by.

“McCree. Commander wants to see you.” They say without pausing, the crunch of their footsteps against the trampled path loud and singular in his ears. Even the sounds constrict and squeeze, tight and impossible to ignore. McCree needs a vacation. A _distraction_.

He wonders if he could find one. The thought smoothes the scowl on his face into something more genial as he tugs at the polyester flap of Reyes’ tent and steps inside.

The soft warm glow of a lantern scares the gloom to the edges of the tent. It reminds him a little of the sun, though the actual thing seems like a distant memory, replaced by the omnipresent swath of gray clouds, tree canopy and dense, thick fog. The endless stench of camp ebbs slightly when the flap closes behind him, only to be replaced by something smoky and spiced: sweat and gunpowder and deeply masculine. Reye’s smell is familiar; McCree has learned it well over the few years he has known him, a companion to their endless sparring matches, fist fights, missions, showers.

This is the most intense Reye’s smell has ever been from a distance. Heat trickles, heady and unbidden, between the sharp v of McCree’s hips. His hands twitch at his sides; he wishes he could have another cigarette.

Reyes doesn’t glance up from his data pad. McCree doesn’t mind. Even after all Reyes’ bitching, he’s never been one for following procedure.

“ _You called for me, boss_?” McCree asks, spanish rolling off his tongue like he’s stepped into a pair of old, worn shoes. Familiar, well used, tinged with nostalgia. 

Reyes doesn’t respond, swipes at his data pad, eyes scanning the glowing lines that reflect back into the dark planes of his face. McCree studies him while he waits, notices how tight and drawn his commander looks, thick lips flattened into a thinner line than usual. Never good.

Reyes finally drops the data pad on the table, rubs a large hand over his sweating face, massaging his temples with a labored sigh.

“ _Your pal in Overwatch._ Shimada. _He ran off at 2300 last night. Abandoned his post._ ” Reyes replies in his native tongue, voice rough with tired annoyance, tapping his fingers against the table. 

McCree’s not sure how to feel about that. A little numb, but not surprised. Genji is an alright guy, a good fighter. A bit withdrawn, though when McCree managed to get a chuckle out of him it always made his heart beat a little faster.

“ _Said he was washing his hands of the cause after he put the last nail in his family’s coffin a week ago_.” Reyes continues. “ _Something about having fulfilled his duty_.”

“ _Yeah, that sounds like him_.” McCree says, smiling a little tired smile, removing his hat to swipe slick fingers through his hair, lifting it off his damp forehead, though it provides no relief. “ _Is that all you had to tell me_?”

“ _He’s caused a lot of trouble for our dear Commander Morrison. They aren’t sure whether to hunt him down or let him go. Any idea where he went?_ ”

“ _Notta clue_.” 

Reyes stops strumming his fingers against his desk, the silence descending upon them immediate and heavy. Then he sighs, tilting his head to the ceiling. 

“ _Figured as much. Dismissed._ ” Reyes returns to studying his data pad.

The curt, flippant attitude is nothing new; McCree is used to being ignored when his commander thought he had nothing else to offer. Usually he rolled with it, shrugged his shoulders easily and turned tail. Now, however, the gentle, gnawing worry for his friend, the suffocating atmosphere of the place, of his own helplessness, bubbles up around him. Makes him stupid. Desperate.

“Is that really all?” He asks, taking a few brave steps closer, until his knees nearly check against his commander’s desk.

This close, Reyes’ smell coils about him, thicker, more pungent. His dick gives one, traitorous twitch. McCree wettens his already damp lips with a quick flick of his tongue.

Reyes finally looks at him, brown-black eyes boring into him with an intensity that catches him off guard. The tilt of his thick brow drawing his heavily lashed eyes so thin and dangerous makes his pulse race.

“You stupid, boy? I said dismissed.” Reyes growls. 

“This place is miserable.” He says, the bites along his body itching, distracting him from the swelling of his own cock, though it’s getting harder to ignore by the second. “We’re going out of our minds, being stuck here with nothing to do. You included.”

Reyes stare hardens for a few seconds, then cracks, exhaustion creeping into his features, though he doesn’t stop glaring. He sighs again.

“What are you getting at?” 

McCree sets his hand on the desk with a quiet smack, leaning forward, heart pounding against his ribs. His nose twitches, sniffing ever so subtly, and he resists the urge to moan. He can almost taste Reyes on his tongue.

“Jus’ want something to do.” He lets the words hang in the air, heavy and suffocating like everything else.

Reyes' left eye twitches, one side of his mouth drawing tight. They have played this game before. A dangerous game, not of knives and guns but of sidelong glances and lingering touches. Reyes pinning him for a second longer than necessary when they spar, thighs thick and clenched around his head. McCree kissing their cigarettes together while it dangles from his lips, bringing his face within inches of Reyes’. Never acknowledged, but undeniable.

McCree draws his weapon now, knows an opening when he sees one, takes aim when he leans in and Reyes sucks in a breath, pupils dilating. The hand on the table steadies his weight as he breathes into the curve of Reyes' ear, before his tongue descends into the delicate shell. The salty taste of it blooms along his tongue, and he moans, soft and desperate into his commander’s ear, and Reyes hisses.

A fist coils around his throat, tight and immediate. McCree groans, muffled and hard, jerking in Reyes’ grip.

“Have you lost your mind? Huh?” Reyes spits, not nearly as venomous as his words imply. Husky, even. 

Wanting.

McCree _grins_ when he surges forward, and though Reyes could easily choke him out, push him away, disable him like he’s done hundreds of times before, he doesn’t. Jesse bites at his throat, teeth sinking into the sweaty, thick flesh of it, tongues at Reye’s thundering pulsepoint, tangy with salt. 

He seals his lips over the throbbing vein, sucking hard and mean, need spilling over like a dam breaks, sudden and overwhelming. Then he can’t breathe, tries to swear but Reyes’ grip tightens more still.

“You fucking idiot. You better not’ve left a mark.”

McCree shakes, wants to apologize but there’s no room for anything but blind panic and need, desperation making him want to crawl out of his skin. Reyes doesn’t let up until his vision swims. He coughs, gasps ragged and pathetic, but his dick swells in a fat line along his thigh, and as soon as he can spare a breath he’s moaning at the feel of it.

“Please, boss. Let me fuck you.” McCree begs, all but crawling over the desk, sending the data pad tumbling to the floor, not sucking but planting frenzied kisses on his commander’s throat, tongue sloppy and wet, grazing his teeth against the jut of his collarbone.

He can feel Reyes’ surrender in the sagging lines of his shoulders, knows he’s won when Reye’s fists his hand into the front of McCree’s uniform and commands him to strip in a way that leaves no room for argument.

-

He never would’ve pegged Reyes for the romantic type, but he doesn’t let McCree fuck him in his chair or even against his desk. 

Reyes reclines on his cot, body shiny slick with sweat in the warm glow of the lantern, nipple piercings catching the light as McCree descends upon him like a man starved, finally allowed his fill of Reyes’ body. He nips down the column of Reyes’ throat while his commander squeezes the scruff of his neck like he would a dog, gripping hard and swearing whenever McCree's bites sink too deep.

He palms Reyes’ chest, tweaks the barbells spearing both of his dark nipples like he’s always wanted to since the first saw him naked; the commander’s harsh grunts at the treatment fire sick, new waves of want through his cock, which twitches against his stomach, already beading at the tip.

McCree works fast, touching and gripping every part of Reyes that’s ever caught his eye: the thick lattice of scars on his shoulder from a shotgun blast, the swarthy patches of hair beneath his arms that Reyes never bothered to trim.

He buries face into the apex of the man’s side and shoulder, nose tickling as the fine curls kiss his skin. He sucks in a deep whiff through his nose, an exhilarating pull that shakes a moan from his chest, has his hips pitching forward against Reyes’ massive, hairy thighs. Reyes smells foul, rich and dark and musty. His tongue darts out, catching along the hair, pressing deep until it touches the sweaty skin, the taste so pungent and saturated he almost comes there and then.

Reyes hand squeezes his neck in a vice.

“God, McCree, you’re fucking sick.” Reyes grunts, though he sounds stupified, a little breathless. 

“You smell terrible.” McCree moans. Slick with sweat and compounded heat, their bodies roll together in a slippery slide.

“And you’re the picture of hygiene.” Reyes bites back, gasping when McCree seals his mouth over one of his nipples, teeth latching against the piercing and jerking. He feels the crescent moons of Reye’s fingers sink into his neck as his commander jerks, fat, uncut cock _swelling_. “You stink even when we aren’t in a place like this.” Reyes continues, weaving his fingers in McCree’s sweaty mop and twisting, forcing his head flush with his pec. “ _Harder_.”

McCree complies eagerly, teeth nipping the tender, swelling flesh, sucking so hard his cheeks hollow with the effort, tongue swirling around it, soothing when the skin grows puffy from the attention. He feels rather than sees Reyes’ cock thicken and twitch, leaking steadily into the coarse trail of curls low on his heaving stomach.

He wants to bury his head in the swath of hair, knows it’ll smell so strongly, so much like Reyes, and his cock twitches dangerously. He wants to clamp his commander’s thighs tight and fuck into the space between, hot and rough, leave Reyes wanting while he takes his own pleasure from his body.

The fantasies fire through his mind while his commander moans and curses like McCree is hurting him, and maybe he is when he sinks his teeth into his untouched nipple, twisting hard at the other swollen peak he’d already tortured with his mouth.

“Stop fucking around.” Reyes grunts, hips lifting to catch against McCree’s, cocks slipping against one another so easily in the sweltering heat of the tent. 

They swear in unison, McCree flattening their lower bodies together as his eyelids flutter and toes curl. Like this, he doesn’t think about Genji, or Overwatch, where they are. His mind is Reyes, every part of McCree belongs to this man beneath him, and a thick wave of something he dares not name swells in his chest.

McCree jack knifes forward, rutting like an animal, the grind not quite as smooth with only sweat to ease their movements but _damn_ he can taste his orgasm already, brows and mouth drawn tight. His forehead nearly collides with Reyes’, and they breathe each other’s air, noses brushing.

Reyes angles his face to the side, his labored grunts ghosting across McCree’s lips. They lock eyes, both men with pupils blown wide, the space between their mouths charged and dangerous. Time seems to slow then, even as their lower bodies quicken, the wet drag of their cocks catching against one another too addicting and unstoppable. Reyes’ gaze flickers low, staring at McCree’s lips, tilts his chin to the left just so the barest brush of his upper lip catches against McCree’s. He hasn’t been hesitant like this since he was thirteen years old. 

The full press of their lips is absurdly chaste  as Reyes wraps a calloused hand around their dicks, squeezing, giving them a rough channel to fuck and claim. McCree flicks his tongue against his lower lip, and when Reyes moans hard and low against his mouth he forces the hot muscle inside. His commander sucks at his tongue immediately, bites when McCree tries to dominate the kiss but the pain fizzles in his mind and he’s peaking, gasping into Reyes’ mouth as he comes in hot, thick bursts against the man’s stomach. Reyes’ swears, fists McCree’s dick, sliding back his foreskin and jerks the last shining drops from his dick like he’s made for it, catching his thumb right beneath McCree’s head where he’s so sensitive.

“Fuck, oh,  _fuck_.” McCree whines hoarsely, smacking Reyes’ hand away when he’s too sensitive and spent. He scrambles down Reyes’ body, the lifting haze of orgasm unable to stifle his need to smell and taste him. He sucks Reyes’ cock into his mouth with no pretense, choking in his desperation, the bitter tang of the man’s precum on his tongue so overwhelming his dick gives a tired twitch. The tip of his tongue peaks out of his mouth, laving the underside of his commander’s cock while he stuffs as much as he can down his throat.

Reyes’ fingers scrabble against his scalp, gasps gravel rough and eyes narrowed and blackened with lust.

“ _Jesse._ ” He groans, tight and breathless when McCree finally gets what he wants, his nose buried in Reyes’ pubes, throat flexing around his throbbing cock, each fluttery almost breath filled with his commander’s smell. 

The tip of his nose squashes against Reyes’s stomach when his boss forces his head down, fucks once, twice, and McCree chokes, feels Reyes’ convulsing in his throat, and McCree swallows and struggles and fuck he can’t even taste his Reyes’ cum as it shoots straight into his stomach. 

McCree’s not sure when Reyes slides out of his mouth, but his brain kicks back on in increments, sucking in air  like he’d burst from the bottom of a pool, panicked and lucky to be alive. McCree drags his eyes up the heaving planes of Reyes’ body as he catches his breath, nose still tickled by his commander’s curls at the base of his softening cock. He licks once, catching the last pearl of cum settled there, pleased at even the small, acrid taste he had previously been denied. 

“God damn, kid.” Reyes says finally, unclenching his hands from the prickling roots of McCree’s hair to brush at the flattened bangs at his temple. “When’s the last time you got laid?”

He blames it on the environment. He blames his own desperation. The strangeness of the place opening his mind for stranger confessions. 

“Nah, it ain’t that.” He says, letting Reyes ease him back up the cot to lie next to him. There’s not enough room for two grown men, and it’s so sticky that he almost wants to pull away. Still. _Still._ Neither of them move. “I’ve…always wanted to…you know?”

Reyes stares at McCree’s face resting against his shoulder and sighs, tired but content.

“I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> For more fic and prompt requests, I'm on [tumblr](https://robotfvckers.tumblr.com).


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